


talk enough sense (and you’ll lose your mind)

by thestarsarefire



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Catching Fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 08:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16472063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarsarefire/pseuds/thestarsarefire
Summary: A different take on the Victors of District Four.





	talk enough sense (and you’ll lose your mind)

A girl stands on the sand on her 15th birthday. She is surrounded by everyone she has ever known. She stares up at the Justice Building with sea green eyes that match the crashing waves behind her, reddish curls flying unbridled in the breeze. A hand squeezes hers, tight.

A dress flows around her tiny frame. She is an angel in white.

“Anneliese Cresta!”

And with one slip of paper, the angel’s life falls apart.

* * *

On stage, the famous Finnick Odair fidgets in the sequined gold covering that had been generously labelled an outfit.

"Jesus fucking Christ."

" _Ay, Dios mío,_ Finnick, language."

"The kid's barely fifteen, Mags. Fifteen."

The old woman manages to raise an eyebrow without drawing attention from the cameras. Her boy is eighteen and a Victor, and while this is his first time mentoring, he is not as naïve as he is currently making out. “You were fourteen, _mijo_.”

"Yeah, I know, but I volunteered, didn’t I?"

And that was the whole point, wasn't it. District Four was a Career district - always had been, always will be, and Mags prides herself on it. Only those who trained, only those who were of age, only those who were ready, would be thrown into the Games. It was strictly volunteers only. She wasn't going to let any more innocent children from her District die if she could help it.

This year's Career cohort had been smaller, true, but there were at least four girls who could have stood in for Anneliese. She didn't know what had happened to Isabela, their chosen volunteer. She didn't want to. Murder was encouraged in the Hunger Games, but it was frowned upon in the Districts.

That being said, she is about ready to murder the ditzy Penelope Maravillo if she didn’t hurry up with the Reaping. Her patience isn’t as strong as it used to be.

“And our lucky boy, Roman Cedano!”

Roman is quickly replaced by someone who appeared to be more muscle than boy as Finnick sighs under his breath.

“Fuck,” he says, and she doesn’t bother chastising him this time as they watch Ash Marrero walk to the stage. Standing together, their tributes were like the sun and the moon, alike in nothing but their first initial. She sees the set of Finnick’s mouth as they watch Ash tower over the tiny Anneliese. She knows what he is going to say.

“It’s going to have to be Ash.”

Mags nodded, looking at the way Annie was tentatively smiling at the crowd, despite the trembling they could see in her hands. Smiling, despite the fact her mentors had just signed away her life.

“Happy Hunger Games,” trilled Penelope, “and may the odds be ever in your favour.” 

* * *

To Annie’s credit, she never cries.

Alicia comes running in at a breakneck pace, baby Mia still on her hip, and hugs her as tightly as she possibly can.

“I’m sorry, Annie. I’m so, so sorry.”

Alicia is seventeen. She could have volunteered. But she’s seventeen, and has lost both her parents and all her uncles and aunts in a storm they say was an accident but they know was not. She’s seventeen, and is now a mother to her five cousins, all of them under the age of eight. She’s seventeen, and now she’s losing her baby sister too.

With tears streaming down her face, Annie hugs her back.

Alicia is seventeen, but she could have never volunteered. 

* * *

The train ride starts off quietly.

It turns out Annie and Ash had known each other, before. Ash had worked in the same fishing crew as Annie’s uncle, and when Finnick asks if he wants to be separated for training, he immediately refuses.

From then on in, they’re a package team.

It causes issues, sure, and Finnick is hard-pressed to get them into the Career pack, but it’s worth it for the way the cameras lap up this dark, gentle giant and the little girl he is protecting. They carry it through to their interviews, make the story as tragic as they can – Annie’s entire family dead in an horrific accident, sister struggling to look after the babies left behind, the kind-hearted boy next door coming in to help – and before long they are inundated with sponsors. Ash gets a 10 in his private session with the Gamemakers, Annie scapes through with a 5, and the Careers start scrambling to get Ash in their alliance. Of course, that means they get Annie too, but she’s quick and good at field medicine, and they aren’t complaining.

Snow sends him out every night, and every morning Mags frowns at the shakiness in his hands, the way his pupils are blown wide. She pats his hand and makes him tea, but both of them know that if they want any chance of getting the kids home alive, he has no choice.

It doesn’t escape either of their notice that Finnick and Ash are the same age.

* * *

Finnick’s just gotten back from being with a client – there’s nothing Snow likes more than a last minute appointment – and hyped up on caffeine and pills. He heads to the kitchen, maybe to get some water, he’s not sure, when he hears a muffled whimper.

He pauses, searching for the source of the noise, before tracing it to the little bathroom in the corner of the sitting room. He knocks once, quietly calling out, and gets no response.

“I’m coming in, okay?” he says, softly opening the door.

It’s Annie, hunched over on her knees, arms crossed over the lid of the toilet bowl. He quickly turns and locks the door before placing one hand gently between her shoulder blades. She jumps.

“Hey, shh, it’s just me,” he says, shushing her as she tries to apologise. “It’s okay, it’s just me.”

She vomits again as he pulls her hair back, keeping a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Soon, it’s just bile, and he leans over to flush the toilet as she leans back against the sink, pale and sweaty.

He gives her a second, before asking, “Nerves?”

She shakes her head, pauses, nods, then shakes it again. It’s not surprising. She’s been nothing but calm and cheerful since she was reaped, but things change when you’re less than six hours from facing your own death. There are tear tracks on her face, but she’s not crying.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.

They’re sat opposite each other, knees touching, and she looks exhausted. He’s exhausted, too.

Annie hesitates, before whispering, “The other tributes – they were talking about me. Before.” He makes an encouraging noise, so she continues, “They said – they said that they’ll kill me as soon as they can, make it look like an accident. So Ash doesn’t realise. So he’s not suspicious, I guess.” She laughs shakily. “I’m not worth much, I know I could never win, but -” She breaks off as a tear trails down her cheek.

He puts a hand on her knee. “Hey. They didn’t think I would make it either, but here I am.” It’s little comfort, but she gives an unsteady smile.

“I’m sorry about – ” she gestures vaguely to the toilet. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m friends with Haymitch, I can assure you that I have more than enough experience.” He grins at her before turning serious. “It’ll be okay, Annie. I promise you, it’ll be okay.”

She sniffles. “How can you promise that?”

He can’t. All he can do is put an arm around her shoulders and pull her close. 

* * *

It’s a long Games. By the tenth day, all the tributes are dehydrated, and seven districts have been eliminated completely. Even the Careers are struggling, the girl from One having been mauled the day before by a wildcat.

Ash glances over at Annie as the recap flashes across the sky. They are down to the final eight.  _Tonight,_ he mouths at her, _tonight, we run._

* * *

A heavy bang startles Annie awake. She looks around frantically for the source of the noise, a pained groan alerting her to a body at the entrance of the cave she and Ash had been holed up in.

“Oh, shit.”

Annie runs over. “Ash! What happened?”

“Banged into the cave roof,” he replies distantly, feeling for a bump with his finger. “Ow. My head hurts.”

“That’s your brain trying to comprehend its own idiocy. How many fingers am I holding up?”

He squints at her. “Four?”

“Four?”

“…ish?”

“No, Ash. I am not holding up four-ish fingers.”

“Well, fuck,” he responds.

From the control room, Finnick rolls his eyes.

* * *

They’d been doing well. Far better than he’d expected, if he’s being honest, and if he was to continue that honesty, he’d say it was a fucking blessing. Snow hadn’t sent him any clients since the Games started, and does that make him a bad person if he’s happy about it?

He’s the last one awake in the Control Room. Chaff is snoring somewhere to the right of him, and he can see Gloss murmuring quietly to an Avox in the hallway. Haymitch left not long ago, patting him on the back as he stumbled out. Ash and Annie are both asleep. There are seven tributes left. He will not sleep until that number is down to one.

* * *

 Mags actually raises both her eyebrows when she sees him at the desk the next morning. “You look like a corpse, boy.”

“Thanks, Mags,” he responds, not even bothering to raise his head.

Johanna, shovelling some kind of stew into her mouth from the chair next to him, chimes in, “She’s right, you know.”

He turns to glare at her half-heartedly. “Your tributes are dead, Jo, what are you even doing here.”

She winks at him, patting his cheek with a little more force than probably necessary. “Always here for moral support and constructive feedback, Finn.” He doesn’t bother gracing that with a response.

Mags sits down at the control desk, deftly plucking the headphones from Finnick and pushing him away. He reaches for them unsuccessfully. “Come on, Mags!”

She looks at him pointedly. “Sleep, boy. Otherwise, you’ll be dead before the kids are, and I’ve invested far too much time and effort into keeping you alive and relatively sane to let you die now.”

“You really have such a kind and lovely way of talking about me.”

“Go, Finnick.”

“It’s almost like you love me or something.”

“ _Ve_.”

“Alright, I’m going, you don’t need to use Spanish on me, Jesus.”

“ _¡Ahora!_ ”

“It’s illegal, you know!” he calls from the elevator. Behind Mag’s back, Jo gives him the finger on her behalf. 

* * *

 “Finnick. Finnick, get up.”

He’s half-asleep, dazed, but he can hear the urgency in that voice. “What?”

It’s Mara, one of the other mentors from Four. She must have been flown in this morning, which means –

He’s wide awake, pushing off the covers, pulling a shirt over his tousled hair. “We’re down to the last five?”

She nods, grabbing his arm to hurry him along. “ _Quickly_ , Finnick.”

They burst into the Control Room. Finnick runs towards Dylan, Victor of the 54th Games, who’s kneeling next to Mags’ who is a scary shade of white. He’s not seen her this shaken in a long time. “Mags! What’s happened?”

“Ash is dead,” she says, running her trembling fingers through her head. “And Annie – ”

“What?” he asks her. She looks away and he grabs her shoulders. Despite everything, both of they have become fond of their kids. “What, Mags?”

She turns the screen towards him. Annie is pinned on the ground by the boy from Two, screaming, as he cuts into her with a knife. Beside her lies Ash’s decapitated head.

Finnick turns into the nearest pot plant and throws up the remainder of his dinner. 

* * *

And then the arena floods, and then Annie wins, but Finnick is in bed with a Capitol lover and he misses her victory, misses her screams, misses her insanity, misses it all.

The interview date comes and goes and yet Annie is nowhere to be seen.

Mags holds her hand in the hospital as he whores himself out to pay Snow back for the humiliation she has caused. _She may have won_ , he tells Finnick, _but Mad Annie Cresta is not a Victor_. 

* * *

Annie remembers snatches, glimpses.

Ash’s mouth, still open in a grin, before his head left his body.

The sound of Silk’s screams.

The rush of water that envelops her head to toe.

Titus’ eyes, glimmering as he cuts her open.

Mags’ hand stroking her hair in the hospital. 

Long, empty, terrifying silence. 

* * *

None of the Victors have left the Training Centre yet. They can’t, not until Annie gives her interview. It’s been two weeks since the Games ended, and there’s only so long Finnick can hold the vultures off.

It’s four in the morning, and he’s exhausted. He’s covered in glitter, and his hair is full of product, and he aches all over, but he can’t sleep because of all the drugs they’ve been giving him to keep him going. Bruises ring his throat, and he’s just so tired.

Annie’s with them, now, so Mags is sitting on the couch when he creeps in. She looks up as he enters, but he ignores her, staring at the ground and trying to remain as invisible as possible.

She calls his name.

And then his head is in her lap, and then he is crying, and then she brushes her fingers through his curls and quietly hums old fishing songs as he falls apart. 

* * *

They give the interview. Or at least, Finnick does.

Annie is on stage for less than five minutes before her hands are over her ears and she is screaming. Dylan and Mara quickly take her off, and Finnick steps in, but the damage is done.

Later, Mags has to tell Annie that her sister is dead. None of them sleep much that night. 

* * *

There’s a knock at the door.

Finnick opens it to see Jo standing there, a bedraggled mess, blood coursing down the side of one leg. He doesn’t need to ask the reason why. He’s had more than his fair share of psychopathic clients.

He opens the door a fraction wider and she pushes past him, heading straight to the liquor cabinet, guzzling down some crap Haymitch brought back from 12 in three gulps. He goes over and puts his hand on her shoulder.

“Slow down, Jo.”

Johanna glares at him, somewhat unhinged, as he takes the bottle from her and caps it, putting it back on the shelf.“Oh, so high and mighty now, aren’t we, now that we have a mad girl to take care of?”

He backs off in surprise as she bends down to scrub at the blood on her leg, swearing between her teeth.

“Hey, stop that – stop, Jo, you’re going to hurt yourself,” he says, grabbing a cloth from the bench and running it under hot water. “Here, sit down, let me help.”

He puts an arm around her shoulder and helps lowers her down to the floor, pulling her leg onto his lap to start wiping up the blood.

“Fuck, ow, Finnick.”

He rolls his eyes, but tries to be more gentle. He bandages the leg, chucks her a painkiller, and goes to put everything away, when suddenly she is in his space and pushing him up against the wall.

“Woah, Jo. Johanna. What are you doing?” he asks, a note of panic in his voice.

“Haven’t you thought about it, Finn?” she asks, and leans in to kiss him.

He lets her, for about half a second, before rationality kicks in and he pushes her away. “Jo, stop.”

She’s exhausted, out of her mind with pain, desperately reaching out to clutch him. He grabs her shoulders and holds her an arms-length away. “Jo. We spend half our lives fucking people that mean nothing. Do we really want to fuck each other, too?”

She bares her teeth at him, scowling, eyes narrowing. “I mean nothing to you, is that what you're saying?

He sighs. "No, I didn't mean -"

"What, you’re too busy with Mad Annie Cresta?” she snarls.

“You don’t mean that,” he snaps back.

“I do.”

“She’s not crazy, Jo. You know that.”

“Jesus, Finn, how much of an idiot are you? Is it true what they say in the Capitol? All balls, no brains?”

"Jo!" He lets go, and she takes advantage of it, getting closer and closer until they are face to face.

“You're gonna take advantage of her, yeah? Like you did with me?” He stares at her, shaken. He sees the glisten of tears as she corners him, as she hisses, “She loves you, you piece of shit!”

“You – wait, what?”

“She loves you,” she repeats. “And I do, too, but all you care about is that mad girl holed up in a Capitol hospital.”

His heart stops. “Jo, what – I – wait, what – I didn't -”

“Congratulations,” she spits, fury in her eyes. “You’re officially the last to know.”

The slam that follows her out sounds more final than it has any right to be.

* * *

He goes to the roof, as he always does when everything in his life falls apart.A few minutes later, Haymitch appears, holding a bottle. He sits down, bumps Finnick’s shoulder in solidarity.

They’ve been friends, him and Haymitch, since the first time Haymitch saw him puking his guts out outside some fancy Capitol club. The first time his body was taken from him.

Haymitch had taken him home, helped clean him up, given him a place to stay when Finnick realised that he couldn’t face Mags. He didn’t leave him alone, and he didn’t mention Finnick’s tears. He just patted his shoulder with a gruff, “It’ll get better, kid.”

There are some things you can’t help bonding over, and that was one of them.

“So. Seems like you fucked up, kid.” Yeah, that was Haymitch. Not really one for sensitivity.

“How’s Johanna?” Finnick asks.

“Okay. I made sure she got home alright.” The _without anyone seeing her_ was left unsaid.

“You really never noticed how she felt about you?” The look he got in response made him snort.

“She’ll be okay. She’s a tough one, our Jo. You might want to apologise, though. Bring flowers, or something.”

“Why am I apologising? She’s the one who came on to me!” Haymitch just looks at him with an eyebrow raise he surely learnt from Mags. Finnick relents. “As if Jo would want flowers anyway.”

Haymitch shrugs. “Everyone likes flowers.”

They sit in silence for a bit, sharing the bottle. Eventually, Finnick speaks.

“Annie’s not crazy, Haymitch. Not by a long shot.”

The old man sighs. “I know that, kid. But you and I both know it’s better if you go on pretending she is.” 

* * *

Mags doesn’t look up as Finnick flops on the carpet like a limp fish. She continues to ignore his dramatics until finally, Finnick lets out a groan so pathetic that she has to put down her knitting to give him her famed eyebrow raise.

“I’ve given up, Mags.”

“On what, boy?”

“On everything. Up to and including my life.”

She pats him gently on the head. “I heard Johanna visited last night.”

He bangs his head into the carpet. “I’ll take that to mean it didn’t go well.”

“I mean, it wasn’t actively disastrous.” She waits. “Wait, no, actually, it was.” He picks up the knitting, making a face at it. “What the hell are you making? It’s summer. And this is orange. Why would you make something that’s orange?”

“It’s _apricot_ , you insolent boy, and it’s for Annie, so you can shut your mouth.” At the mention of Annie, Finnick falls quiet again, picking at the orange (apricot) wool. In order to attempt to salvage her poor knitting, Mags asks, “What happened?”

“Well, the short version is that I’m an idiot.”

That, sadly, is to be expected, but it isn’t quite enough information to satisfy Mags. She prods him with the blunt end of her knitting needle.

“And the long version?”

“I’m a fucking idiot?” he says, rolling over onto his back and flopping his arm over his eyes.

She smacks the only part of him she can reach, which is unfortunately only his left shin. “Language!”

“Seriously, Mags,” he sighs. “She came over after her… after she was in the Capitol.” Mags carefully avoids asking what she was doing there. “She started drinking, and I told her to slow down, then she tried to kiss me, and I told her the two of us probably have enough sex as it is without doing it with each other, then she tried to murder me with her eyes, and then I died, and now I’m here.”

“… hmm.”

“And so now I’m going to have to go apologise to her so that she doesn’t go ruin her life. With flowers or something, I don’t know, I’m not really sure how this works, but it was recommended that I bring flowers.”

She snorts.“Who told you that, _mijo_?”

“What d’you mean?” he responds indignantly.

“Finnick. I know you, boy. You may be good with a trident, but you have the awareness of a tuna fish. I can assure you that you did not singlehandedly formulate that thought.”

“I could have!” A pause. “Alright, Haymitch did,” he concedes.

“Oh, Finnick, really.”

“But in my defence, he was sober at the time!” He pauses for a second before adding, “at least, mostly sober.”

She looks at him wryly. “What if I try and talk to her?”

“No! It’ll only end in tears. Your tears, my tears, the tears of our ancestors -”

“And why is that?”

“Because, Mags, she’ll kill you, and I don’t want you to get killed. And to be perfectly frank, I don’t want to myself to get killed, either, I don’t particularly want to attend a funeral in any capacity, _particularly_ if it’s by the hands of one Miss Johanna Mason, who may I remind you, is the only known Victor in the _history_ of the Hunger Games to employ the use of an _axe_ , which is a murder weapon _readily available in her district_.”

Mags stands up, creaky knees and all, and begins to head towards the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

“I need a cup of tea, my dear boy. Let me know when your dramatics have stopped monopolising my carpet.”

* * *

The three of them go home, and things fall into a quiet routine.

They all have their own houses, but more often than not Annie stays with Mags, and Finnick finds any excuse he can to pop over. They become close, those two, and Mags sits in the living room and hears them laugh as they try to fix her broken fence, or bake her a cake, or even just sit in the garden and talk. Each morning, Finnick goes into town to bring back fresh bread for breakfast, as Mags teaches Annie to knit. When he comes home, they sit and eat together, laughing and talking. Eventually, Annie is strong enough to go with him, and soon they start taking walks on the beach together as Mags looks on from the window.

Annie still has nightmares, and sometimes she seems to lose reality entirely. Finnick still has his clients, and sometimes he is so exhausted he seems ready to collapse. Mags still worries relentlessly about her children, and sometimes she can’t seem to remember what the three of them are fighting for. But for a brief moment, they’re happy. 

* * *

It all comes crashing down too soon. In the weeks leading up to Annie’s Victory Tour, she becomes more irritable, panicky, stops sleeping properly.

Finnick sprints from his house as fast as he can when he hears the screams.

Mags is awake, but she’s old now, and can’t climb the stairs as quickly as he can. He pushes past her and runs straight into Annie’s room. She’s still screaming, tangled in the sheets. “Annie!”

“No! Please!”

“Annie!”

She lurches awake, startled, grabbing a knife from under the pillow and pointing it at him. Her eyes are crazed, still trapped in the nightmare. He raises his hands. “Annie, it’s me. It’s Finnick. Give me the knife, okay? It’s just Finnick.”

He takes a step forward and she startles, dropping the knife. He lunges forward to grab it, but she’s coming back to herself, eyes growing wide with horror, and leaves it alone. He tosses it across the floor before reaching out to her.

She flinches back, crying out.

“Annie, it’s just me,” he whispers, and she lets him come closer, holding her in his arms.

 

He looks up out the doorway, where Mags stands, face lined with grief. She keeps watch as he holds Annie close.

* * *

The Victory Tour comes and goes, and things slowly get better.

Mags smiles as she sees the two of them, her boy and her girl, standing together in the garden. The sun sets over the sea and a hush settles across the garden as they quietly embrace.

It’s the last thing she sees before the stroke obscures her vision.

* * *

Annie is asleep in the corner. Finnick is holding Mags’ hand. There are tear tracks on both their faces.

As soon as he realises Mags is awake, Finnick starts to cry. She tries to reach him, tries to speak, but only a garbled mess comes out. “I’m sorry, Mags,” he sobs, and she pulls his head onto her shoulder, shushing him as best she can. “I’m so sorry.”

She holds her boy as he falls apart.

Over his head, Annie sits up, looks directly at her, eyes full of tears. She tries to tell them she loves them.

It doesn’t matter if the words come out wrong. They already know. 

* * *

They’re still in the hospital room with her when they announce the Quarter Quell. Finnick goes ghostly white and Annie starts to shake, but Mags is calm and tells them, as best she can, to get Haymitch.

That night, two more join the revolution.

* * *

They are standing together on the beach, the night before the Reaping. It’s beautiful, and quiet, and if it’s Finnick’s last glimpse of home, he’d be content with that.

He still hopes it isn’t.

They are standing together on the beach, arms wrapped around each other, watching the sun slowly set over the waves. He looks at her, his beautiful girl with red hair that refuses to be tamed, with a soul that shines brighter than anything District One could come up with.

She stares back, brushing her fingers through his hair, kissing him on the cheek.

“You’re perfect,” she says. He rolls her eyes at the Capitol-ism.

“Nobody’s perfect.”

“You’re perfect for me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a mess, so I don’t know what that says about me.”

“And here I was hoping that nobody would notice.”

He leans in. “They can see -” a kiss “- that you’re a fucking mess -” one more “from space.”

She laughs, and it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. 

* * *

A girl stands on the sand on her 20th birthday. She is surrounded by everyone she has ever known. She stares up at the Justice Building with sea green eyes that match the crashing waves behind her, reddish curls flying unbridled in the breeze. A hand squeezes hers, tight.

A dress flows around her tiny frame. She is an angel in white.

“Anneliese Cresta!”

And with one slip of paper, the angel’s life falls apart.

* * *

It’s like déjà vu as Mags pushes her away and rises to the stage.

“Finnick Odair!”

It’s like déjà vu as she falls to her knees.

Mara’s hands are on her shoulders. Peacekeepers are closing in. Finnick, the only boy she’s ever loved, and Mags, the only tether she had to reality, are gone.

Annie looks up at the sea green sky and laughs and laughs and laughs. 

* * *

It took a slip of Capitol paper to take Annie’s life.

It took a slip of Capitol power to take Finnick’s.


End file.
